Glass
by Thran
Summary: Buffy came to visit Faith in prison after coming back to life; do they have anything to say to one another? Inspired by the recent Angel episode "Salvage".


Glass  
  
One year, seven months to the day, and she came to visit me in prison. She'd appeared several times recently in my dreams, the vivid ones that stayed with me for days and made me wonder if I was still linked somehow to the mystical Slayer powers. I was, after all, still the real Slayer, through whom the ancient muckety-muck Line of Chosen Freaks ran. But how the hell was I supposed to act on those prophetic visions and save the world when really, I was the thing the world needed saving from? Buffy could do that, she was the hero. Not me. And her being around again made my existence pretty much meaningless. I played the villain, just like you wanted, B. Just so you could be the good guy and take me on and jam my own dagger deep inside me. You tried to make me go away, but it's never that easy, is it? I found that out when I knew I had nothing left to live for and my obsession with death took over; when I surrendered to it and begged the universe to let me go. Of course, I'd chosen the wrong enemy to fight; Angel was too full of compassion, and took pity on me when I wanted none. It was one year, seven months to the day since he took pity on me, since I saw her last, since I turned myself in to shut myself away and try to find a glimmer of peace.  
  
Angel came to visit me every few weeks for some time; I guess I'd become sort of a project to him. He turned broody again, distracted, and then I didn't see him for a long stretch of months. Those were the longest few months of my life. I retreated into the darkness, starting fights instead of avoiding them, almost begging the guards to do me in. They nearly did a few times; I was in and out of the infirmary at least once a week. But I healed too quickly, and the bruises and the cracked ribs never lasted more than a day or so, until I started it all over again. It was never enough. Just over a year after I'd gotten here Angel appeared again, broken, blank, empty. Buffy was dead.  
  
She'd sacrificed herself to save the world -- it was just like we'd both always known she'd go out. We cried together then, and wished we could reach through the pane of glass between us and hold each other tight. Angel left the country after that, and was gone all summer. On some sort of healing retreat, I suppose. He left me alone for months again, but this time I didn't lash out. I turned inwards instead, and considered a jailbreak almost every day. I knew it wouldn't be a hint of trouble -- no ordinary prison could ever be equipped to hold a Slayer against her will. It occurred to me that I was now the only living Slayer, and the burden of the world's survival rested on my shoulders. At least, that's how Buffy would have seen it. But it was too soon. I was still too close to the darkness, the black comforting blanket; I knew it would be all too easy to slip back into the violence. So I stayed. I waited. I destroyed punching bags in the exercise yard and tried to ignore the awed crowd that sometimes gathered. I even managed to ignore most of the hotshots who weren't impressed and tried to build a rep by throwing down with me. There weren't many of those; the girls learned fast.  
  
It was the middle of September before I saw Angel again. This time, Buffy was alive. Raised from the dead and back to her old heroic ways. This time, we didn't laugh together. There was a distance between us thicker and more impenetrable than the glass in the visitor's room. I haven't seen him since.  
  
One year, seven months to the day, and Buffy Summers, back from the dead, was sitting across that same impenetrable glass from me, hazel eyes dulled with an ocean of pain. I picked up the handset and spoke to her.  
  
"Buffy."  
  
"Hello, Faith."  
  
That tapped us out for a while. I stared at the blond Slayer before me, and was shocked to see something familiar yet out of place in her eyes. Staring back at me was the same death-wish I knew so well from looking in the mirror. This wasn't just the angst-ridden world-on-her-shoulders way-too-mature teenager I'd known back in Sunnydale. This was the look of someone who had no more will to continue living, like she knew that what came after death would be an immense relief from the daily torture of living. A relief. She'd been dead, and therefore knew what actually did come after --  
  
Something clicked in my brain, and my eyes popped open wider. That idiot witch must have yanked Buffy out of a very good place indeed. Heaven, for lack of a better fucking term.  
  
And now the Hero not only hated the world, but clearly loathed and despised herself as well. I looked deeper into her eyes and knew it was true; we spoke without language, touching each other's minds like we'd always been able to do.  
  
"I've been dreaming of you lately."  
  
It took me a moment to realize that Buffy had actually spoken aloud.  
"That's why I came here. I think -- " Her voice, already deadened, made a slight hitch -- "I think I'm not supposed to be here. No, I know it. It ought to be your time to be the Slayer, Faith. There's no point to my being here. Alive. Not anymore."  
  
I leaned forward and laid my hand on the glass, almost believing I was touching her cheek. "That's not true, B," I whispered. I pulled back and spoke more harshly. "Look, I don't know much, but I know I belong in here and you belong out there. At least for now. Jesus, what have they done to you? You're the hero, Buffy, always have been, always will be."  
  
She half-turned away from me, denying the truth of what I'd just said. Her eyelids were streaked with red, her cheeks blotchy, tears almost spilling over. But the eyes that avoided looking into mine were dead, feeling nothing.  
  
"Why the fuck did you come here?" I asked abruptly. "I'm not a part of your life anymore, remember? You got rid of me."  
  
She might have said something else; I'm not sure. The barrier between us hardened, the bond we'd always shared and never understood was thinner than perception. That bond had snapped when Buffy had died, and her coming back to life hadn't effectively reforged it. The half of me that once was her still felt vacant, and seeing her again just emphasized how much I'd lost. Then she was gone, a puff of smoke vanishing invisibly into the memories between us, memories more real than the life we no longer shared.  
  
I dreamed of her again that night, like a figure of shadow hovering over me. Unable to reclaim her own destiny, she yet prevented me from claiming mine. I bruised my hand on the concrete wall beside me as I slept, something deep within me screaming for release. I haven't seen her since that day; sometimes, I forget she still exists. What does the world need me for, when the Hero I don't know anymore soldiers on? Now when she appears in my dreams, the shadow is gone and she shines brightly, solid once more in the role where she belongs.  
  
A year later: it's been two years, seven months to the day since I got here. Today, Wesley has come to see me for the first time. And I am needed on the outside at last.  
  
This time, I think I'm ready.


End file.
